Written by: Frank F. Atanacio

The image of a young child filled her mind,
she was no more than four feet tall,
sweet and very kind,
always loved the mall,
her voice crackling,
her mind tackling
issues she thought she didn’t have to deal with,
it was a crying shame,
she knew her clothes were getting too big,
as they draped a thin frame,
sometimes she’d look like a twig,
the image of her were of skeleton and bone,
malnourished, deficiencies, defects,
is why she always felt alone,
it made her a pale trophy for death’s room,
as it craved her end, and craved her doom,
her sickness became intense,
there was no pretense,
that she could sense,
her glossy eyes revealed the signs,
she was just too thin,
bones sticking out all over her skin,
her mother walking on the beach, so sad,
as she walked on the white sand, so mad,
chiseled and polished by the rushing tide,
crying, uncontrollably,
because that day her daughter died.